


take my hand, i'll show you the wild side

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: M/M, Warnings for discussions of Child Abuse and Assault, and a depiction of Child Abuse.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: "Phillip is positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that his parents would be absolutely and incontrovertiblyrevoltedif they could see what their son is, quite literally, entangled in".Phillip Carlyle learns that touch canhealas much as it can hurt.





	take my hand, i'll show you the wild side

**Author's Note:**

> I really cannot overstate my gratitude for the endlessly sweet and supportive comments my readers leave on my fics. All of you are wonderful people, and your reviews never fail to put a smile on my face and make me feel like I'm contributing something of even minuscule value to the world. 
> 
> From the bottom of my heart, _thank you_.

 

*

 

 

"Phillip, stay close."

Phillip has no intention of getting separated from Barnum- his North Star in this new, strange, and overwhelming world of color, sound, and spectacle where every turn brings him face to face with a sight he has never seen before.

A tall man made even taller by stilts.

Exotic beauties in extravagant costumes that highlight the coppery hues of their skin.

Fire and knives and absolutely no reservations _anywhere_ to be found.

In his state of wonder, Phillip's limbs assume their unreliable, near-gelatinous state brought on by staggering drunkenness. He's suddenly swaying and tripping over his own feet as he boggles in an attempt to soak in every new and stunning assault on the reality he once held dear. It is a humiliating first impression to make as Barnum's new "overcompensated apprentice"- stumbling about while everyone around him maneuvers with decided grace through the tight and busy space. Barnum, himself, being no exception.

Phillip finally loses the battle with his balance. He ducks under a rehearsing performer, colliding with a trunk that escaped his notice, in the process, and his body promptly folds into a clumsy roll across the flat surface of the lid that sets him up for an imminent crash with the ground below. As his knees hit the ground, however, he feels a strong hand encase his wrist and hoist him almost effortlessly to his feet.

He comes face to face with Barnum, sees the man's magnetically animated dark eyes flickering over him with concern tugging at his brow-line. "Are you quite all right, there, Mr. Carlyle?" Barnum asks.

"I…" Phillip's words catch in his throat, his breath hitching, as it did the moment Barnum first approached him. At the time, he thought the man's appearance a drunken hallucination. Until he took the showman's proffered hand and confirmed for himself that Barnum was, indeed, very _real_ , and, _somehow_ , standing right in front of him.

_Him_. Disgraced, certainly, but altogether very boring and unexceptional Phillip Carlyle.

"Just… a tad overwhelmed, is all," Phillip manages, quirking the corners of his mouth in an attempt at a smile.

Barnum lets out a laugh; a warm, hearty sound that fills the room and resonates in Phillip's chest. "Everyone is, at first. But you'll get used to it." His intent stare- _hazel_ , Phillip realizes. He had an inkling that Barnum's eyes weren't entirely brown, that first night in the bar. Flecks of color bright as the whiskey in their shot glasses lit the man's irises. But, the conversation moved at such a brisk pace, one much _too_ brisk for Phillip's clouded mind, Phillip didn't have much time to truly drink in Barnum's features the way he wanted to. Beyond, of course, a showcasing of the man's lower half that held quite a bit of promise- drifts to the secure hold he has on Phillip's wrist. He seems to study that hold, and Phillip's heartbeat curiously stutters, the tempo kicking up.

At last, Barnum's dazzling and disarming smile reemerges, and he continues on, tugging Phillip behind him. "Lots more people to meet and no time to waste."

_Right_ , Phillip thinks, dazed. He tries his best to ignore the warmth of Barnum's hand, and the strange fuzziness filling his head.

 

.c.

 

Crowded harbors should be classified as some sort of a crime against humanity.

Phillip finds himself swerving and dodging around countless bodies, earning more than a few grunts, and glares, and demands that he watch where he's going. He wishes, for just a moment, that he possessed Barnum's seeming invulnerability to the scoring stares of others, and his willingness to create a space for himself in a world unwilling to offer one.

At last, he catches sight of Anne and W.D. Wheeler standing beside the Irish Giant and the Dog Boy, and he hurries toward them, making a resolute effort to not trip over his own feet.

"Chang and Eng, Constantine. Phillip. Phillip? Where is Phillip?" He hears Barnum asking. He wonders if he is fabricating the just detectable hint of panic to Barnum's tone.

"I'm here!" Phillip announces.

The circus troupe turn, as one, to face him.

"Your alarm not go off, this morning?" Charles Stratton asks. "Or were you out late hitting the sauce, again?"

A few peals of scattered laughter ascend from the rest of the oddities, Lettie's being the loudest and most raucous, and even the normally proud and reserved Anne lifts a hand to her mouth to conceal her giggles.

Phillip's face floods with heat and his insides twist in on themselves.

"Phillip, I want you up here, with me." Before Phillip can make a move toward the ringmaster, Barnum has grabbed onto his hand and pulls him through the line of performers to his side.

Phillip's flushing intensifies as he stands with his shoulder to the older man's bicep. "Is there any particular reason why you need me beside you?" He queries in the lowest voice he can manage while still able to be heard over the noise and chaos surrounding them. His body is responding to Barnum's proximity- maddening flutter in his stomach, heat pulsing out from their joined hands like blood traversing through his nervous system.

"Don't want to lose you to this madness," Barnum informs him casually, as if the explanation should have occurred to Phillip, as well.

"Ah, right," Phillip murmurs. For a reason that he cannot discern, he feels… _foolish_.

Barnum flashes him a reassuring smile, his eyes alight and dancing with excitement at the prospect of travel overseas, of meeting the Queen, herself. In the brightness of midday, the flecks of amber and gold illuminating the depths of his irises shine, shades of green and blue becoming apparent, as well.

It comes as no surprise to Phillip that something as simple and relatively unexceptional as the color of one's eyes proves to be intriguing and instantly attention-grabbing where P.T. Barnum is concerned. Everything from the man's style, to the way he carries himself, to his personality, screams out, _"Look at me. Talk about me. Pay attention to me."_

And, Barnum definitely, unequivocally has Phillip's attention.

 

.c.

 

Phillip and Barnum share quarters onboard the ship, and it is just Phillip's luck that the high spirits accompanying the ship's departure are followed up by the contents of his stomach choosing to upheave.

Several times.

He spends an agonizing, humiliating duration kneeling over the sink in the cabin's bathroom, with Barnum periodically coming in to… monitor him, Phillip supposes. Ensure that he doesn't choke on his own vomit, perhaps? During one of these… check-ins, Barnum's hand rests briefly on Phillip's backside, between his shoulder blades, and he asks, the baritone of his voice soothing, "Stomach not fit for travel, eh?"

Phillip's only response is a pained and thoroughly exhausted groan.

"You know, I read that peppermint is an excellent remedy for nausea."

"Peppermint?" It sounds like some form of charlatan nonsense that Phillip's parents would immediately decry.

"Mm. Peppermint. 'Aromatherapy', they call it. You just breathe in the scent of it, and--"

Phillip's body jerks forward, seized by another retch that makes his stomach spasm futilely, having offered up everything it had to give, and leaves him drained as he slumps, unattended, to the floor. He rubs wearily at his head, part of him already missing the older man's presence, if only because it provided him with something to latch onto. A pleasant distraction from his misery.

When Barnum returns with a small bottle, Phillip's heart stirs ever so slightly, and he is willing to try just about _anything_ if it will settle his stomach enough to allow him at least a few hours' sleep.

Barnum hunkers down in front of him and uncaps the bottle, bringing the mouth of it to Phillip's nose. Warily, Phillip edges toward it, and, only at Barnum's very slight nod, the gentle light to his eyes, and the concern creasing his forehead and adding to the crinkles in his brow, does Phillip inhale.

The scent is undeniably peppermint; sweet, cloying, and nearly overpowering. And, true to Barnum's word, it does take the edge off of Phillip's nausea.

Carefully, he breathes the candied aroma in a second time, and feels the tempest raging and roiling in his stomach begin to dissipate. When he is finally able to speak, he ventures hoarsely, "Rather unusual for a man to have a bottle of peppermint oil on him."

Barnum's lips curl into that _smirk_ that sends a shock of heat on a direct line from Phillip's chest to his groin. Phillip detests him for it, and also knows that he could never detest him _because_ of it. In the small window of time that Phillip has been acquainted with Phineas Taylor Barnum, he has felt more _alive_ than he has in months, _years_.

"You should know, by now, that I am a curator of the unusual." Barnum adds, with a wink that makes Phillip's chest feel off-center, "I, myself, am no exception."

He extends a hand, and Phillip takes it, allowing Barnum to tug him upright with that strength that has long ceased to be alarming, and has, instead, become extremely enticing. _Titillating_ , even, if the tingles and goosebumps racing across Phillip's epidermis have anything to say about it.

"Thank you," Phillip murmurs, trying a smile and hoping that it doesn't look like a nauseated wince.

"Ahh, don't mention it." Affection twinkling in his eyes, Barnum drags a hand through Phillip's pathetically mussed, sweat-dampened hair, rumpling it.

Phillip tells himself that his exhaustion is what keeps him from batting the hand away. His _exhaustion_ is also responsible for the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. _Of course_.

"You should try to get some sleep, now." Barnum says, his voice adopting the clipped, authoritative tones that he employs when commanding the helm of their company. Authoritative tones that, when spoken in his simultaneously gruff and mellifluous- a paradox befitting of the extravagant and eccentric showman- baritone, send excited shivers dancing down Phillip's spine to awaken something hidden and lying dormant deep within him. "We have a long day ahead of us."

"Don't we always," Phillip remarks, a touch more caustically than intended.

Barnum merely grins.

By the time they have changed into their nightshirts, Phillip's stomach is somersaulting and he is clutching at his head, just suppressing a groan.

Barnum clucks his tongue, his eyes darkening sympathetically.

Phillip is tempted to shoot him a withering look, but the temptation is curtailed by the older man jumping out of his bed as if possessed, and taking the bottle of peppermint oil. Without a word, Barnum pours some of the oil into his hand and dabs it onto the exposed flesh of his neck, clavicle, and the upper area of his broad chest.

Watching Barnum's skin, and the fine layer of dark hair curling over it, glisten in the dim, orange glow of the lighting in their cabin, Phillip finds his mouth inexplicably dry. "P.T.," he gapes, "what are you…?"

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Barnum fixes him in another intent stare, and Phillip's reason and reservation promptly exit him without so much as a fight. "Come over here."

Phillip casts his own bedding to the side and gets to his feet. Right as he reaches the edge of Barnum's bed, the ship encounters turbulence, and Phillip is pitched forward at an abrupt speed that topples him. This time, he is able to brace himself, fingertips curling around the baseboard. He hauls himself to his feet, and allows Barnum to take hold of his hand and guide him onto the bed.

"You're finally getting accustomed to it," Barnum notes, his voice a gentle murmur as Phillip settles in beside him.

" _Must_ you use pronouns and purposely obtuse and enigmatic language? I doubt it would actually _kill_ you to be upfront with what you mean, for once." Phillip can feel Barnum's amused grin against his forehead as Barnum shifts closer, drawing Phillip into him. His pulse begins to hammer.

The speedily decreasing distance between himself and Barnum is doing nothing to aid his parched throat.

"I figured a playwright would have more of an appreciation for riddles and declarations that leave room for interpretation," Barnum teases him.

Phillip would be angry with the man if he weren't so _tired_ , and Barnum's body heat and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat weren't acting as a pacifier, nullifying every negative emotion before it can take form. _Honest_ , he would.

"Accustomed to what?" He replies, unable to keep his eyes open as the scent of peppermint mixed with Barnum's cologne and every other fragrance that Phillip has specifically come to associate with his boss- aged whiskey, peanut shells, clean linen and just a hint of sweat pleasantly charged with adrenaline- washes over him.

" _Touch_."

The word, salacious all on its own with the way that Barnum utters it, a low, flammable whisper veering on a _growl_ , crawls into Phillip's ear canal and takes root at the base of his spine, sending heat and shivers rippling out and almost coaxing a gasping moan from the confines of his chest.

He has never allowed himself to linger on it, pay it much consideration beyond casual observation, but it is true that one of the many aspects of Barnum's Circus that further distinguishes and divides it from the world outside of its walls, is that physical boundaries are not a thing anyone seems to have a particular vested interest in upholding. Touch is given and sought freely with absolutely no restrictions or limitations posed by sex. Women dance with female partners during and outside of rehearsals, and stroke and play with each other's hair. Men happily and earnestly embrace other men, even while half-dressed. Once or twice, Phillip has seen a performer massaging another's upper back in the dressing area, as if it were the most casual thing in the world for a man and woman not romantically involved with one another to be doing.

Every time, Phillip has blushed and averted his gaze, certain that he has stumbled upon something not meant for his eyes. Displays that his parents would, undoubtedly, christen "appalling", with fear and disgust shadowing their features and gleaming in their wide, shallow gazes.

Here and now, lying curled into P.T. Barnum's tall, powerful, striking, and imposing, but also reassuring, benevolent, warm, and _safe_ form, Phillip is positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that his parents would be absolutely and incontrovertibly _revolted_ if they could see what their son is, quite literally, entangled in.

And, all the same, as he nuzzles into the showman's throat and just dimly registers a caressing hand being drawn down his back, he admits, "Only yours."

He thinks he hears Barnum's pulse stutter, something like a muted gasp in Barnum's throat. But, sleep is so near to him, whispering sweet promises into his ear, that all he can do is exhale, long and slow, and burrow closer to the warmth and security that he still can't believe is within his reach.

 

.c.

 

Anne's hand is soft, her skin smooth, and the scent wafting gently off of her to wreathe around Phillip when he takes hold of her appendage to lead the company in a bow, is a sweet, fragrant jasmine.

It should be enough for him. _She_ should be enough for him.

When he returns to the backstage area and Anne quietly withdraws to begin removing her stage makeup, Phillip glances toward the decadent red coat that has featured prominently in his most shameful and libidinous fantasies. He imagines skimming his fingers over the gold trimmings and gildings, the silky, masterfully tailored crimson fabric.

He longs for the owner's callused fingers dragging over his skin.

For not the first time, he wishes he had never introduced Barnum to Jenny Lind.

"Carlyle." W.D. Wheeler's deep voice cuts through Phillip's introspection.

Phillip will not deign to calling it "pining". He will cling resolutely to any shred of dignity that he still has in his possession.

"We're going out for drinks," W.D. says. Phillip turns in the man's direction to find that "we", refers to W.D., Prince Constantine, The Elephant-Skinned Man, Chang and Eng, and an odd assortment of other members of the troupe. "Care to join us?"

The minor animosity between Phillip and the elder of the trapeze sibling duo has begun to evaporate during Phillip's tenure as ringmaster in Barnum's stead. While Phillip values W.D.'s company, and his friendship, if he can dare to grant their still rather tenuous relationship such a bold title, and his throat is _itching_ for the comfortingly familiar burn of whisky, Phillip has to decline.

"I have a lot of paperwork to look over. You guys go on ahead."

W.D. flashes Constantine a look, and confusion pulls at the tattooed man's brow.

Phillip feels heat blooming in his cheeks.

"Suit yourself," W.D. finally says, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. He leads the group toward the door, but pauses a few lengths away from Phillip, his dark stare tempting Phillip to seek refuge in the office and never reemerge. "Barnum won't be on tour forever."

Something crashes inside of Phillip, and his fingernails bite into his palms as he tries to present a facade of outward stability. "Of course he won't be."

The corners of W.D.'s lips twitch into something in the realm of a smirk.

Phillip's brain spirals into a tailspin as he curses himself and wonders what he might have done to give his hand away, but W.D. mercifully says nothing further on the matter.

Instead, he continues on toward the door, bidding Phillip, "Take care of yourself, Carlyle."

Taken aback, Phillip reminds himself that he is supposed to be _in charge_ , and does his best to emulate the assured, commanding tones that come so naturally to Barnum, "I expect you back before sunrise."

His voice quivers obviously, but W.D. is kind enough to withhold his amusement as he steps outside and the door closes behind him.

Sighing down to the soles of his shoes, Phillip glances toward Barnum's signature coat, and concedes that the smooth glass of a bottle in his hand is no substitute for the showman and all of his excess.

 

.c.

 

The sight of the circus, the building that Phillip and so many others have come to recognize as home, engulfed in flame, is the closest thing to a realization of the biblical Hell that Phillip has ever encountered.

He staggers out of the blaze, Lettie's arm slung around his neck, and is so dazed by smoke inhalation, he almost dismisses the vision of Barnum approaching him, calling his name, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him with dark eyes stretched wide in panicked fear, as another product of his imagination.

There's no way that Barnum would be back this soon. He's too stubborn. Too damningly persistent on seeing things through to the end, even if they'll leave him in ruin.

But, when Phillip absently reaches out to touch the material of the man's coat, he feels the heat and the solid muscle that he _knows_ , and his heart is shocked back to life.

Until he realizes that Anne isn't standing among them.

His insides turn concave, collapsing and imploding. He feels his heart rip right in two. _Barnum is here_ , but _Anne_ is- trapped, burning, _dying_. Phillip looks at Barnum, wanting to take in his features, commit them to memory in case this is the last time he ever gets to behold them: Barnum's arched brows, his striking nose, his intense eyes that, somehow, see right through a person to ascertain all of their doubts, fears, and insecurities so that he can ground them into non-existence with the heel of his shoe, the thick, dark waves of hair that Phillip has wanted to run his fingers through since the night he met him.

P.T. Barnum, the man who lured him out of his world of whisky, parties, plays, and misery rooted in the marrow of his bones, and into a world of adventure, and madness and friendship and love and _touch_.

Then, Phillip turns and runs back into the fire, determined to save the other precious component of his new world, the other brilliant and beautiful person who taught him the value of touch.

If his life is forfeit, at least he can die with the warmth of Barnum's skin tingling in his fingertips.

 

.c.

 

After the fire, so much shifts about. One more inclined to sentiment than Phillip might even say that it all falls into place.

Phillip is no longer P.T. Barnum's "overcompensated apprentice", but his partner and _equal_. And, they share the role of ringmaster; Barnum assuming it for afternoon shows on weekdays when his girls are in school, and the occasional weekend when Charity takes Helen and Caroline to visit their grandparents; Phillip taking it over every other show.

Every so often, Phillip will catch a glimpse of Barnum in the audience during his nights in the ring, and his showman's smile widens, his heart singing that much louder as he basks in the pride glowing in the older man's eyes.

This particular night, when they reconvene backstage, Barnum opens his arms wide, beaming brighter than the spotlights that bathed the performers, and a grinning Phillip moves into him, allowing himself to be hugged to Barnum's chest.

"You've done so well. You were magnificent out there," Barnum says, his chin resting against Phillip's forehead. The light scrape of the man's stubble makes Phillip shiver rapturously. "Hiring you may have been one of the best decisions I've ever made."

"More flattery," Phillip teases gently, aware of the warmth in his cheeks.

"A sincere compliment, is more like it." Barnum's voice softens.

Phillip's heart pangs, and he takes a step back, studying and searching Barnum's features. "You came into that fire after me."

Barnum nods, slowly. "Yes," he answers hoarsely. "I did."

"You…" Phillip swallows, uncertain of what he means to say, or accomplish, but words spilling past his lips regardless, "You didn't have to do that fo-- _because_ of me."

"I _did_ ," Barnum repeats again, with more conviction, his voice brimming with more emotion than Phillip could possibly hope to parse out. "And I would do it again, in a heartbeat." He reaches out, and, curling his fingers, draws the back of his knuckle down the side of Phillip's face, caressing the ridge of his cheekbone and the line of his jaw, all the way to his chin, which he holds, ever so slightly, between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes glow with tenderness so ample and abundant, Phillip's knees weaken.

Phillip gulps, his throat and mouth working to form and extract words, but coming up empty-handed every time. For a long moment, all he can do is stare into Barnum's eyes, absorb their color, pray that he isn't imagining the flicker of hope burning gold in the depths of that stare and mirroring the embers being warily stoked in the tinderbox of his chest. "I…" He finally says. "I wasn't able to save you, but I would--"

"Oh, Phillip, you did. You _did_." Barnum takes Phillip into another embrace and brushes his lips against Phillip's brow.

Tears well in Phillip's eyes. They feel long overdue. He wraps his arms about his partner, and clenches at the material of his overcoat, pressing his face into the padded, silken material clothing Barnum's shoulder.

Barnum whispers, "In more ways than you could ever know," and Phillip is certain, for once, that he isn't imagining the trace of a sob hitching in Barnum's throat.

 

.c.

 

Kisses are the logical progression of the escalating touches between Phillip and Barnum, so, neither man ever truly pauses to question it when Barnum first brushing, then pressing a kiss to Phillip's forehead, and Phillip tossing caution and inhibition to the wind to feather one at the corner of Barnum's mouth, become a customary part of the way they greet one another upon their arrival at the circus.

For the two of them, these light pecks are normal as a handshake or friendly clap on the shoulder, and the rest of the troupe accepts this when they happen upon the pair of ringmasters offering each other a "good morning" (usually from a cheery Barnum), or, (tiredly grumbled by Phillip over a cup of freshly ground black coffee) "afternoon".

Barnum's arm will find its way around Phillip's shoulders as they're pouring over the mountains of paperwork cluttering the desk in their office, and Phillip no longer hesitates to grab Barnum's hand or shoulder when there is an addition of a particularly dangerous act to the show's itinerary.

Today, this new addition happens to involve _fire_ , because Barnum is addicted to spectacle as much as he is to risk-taking and putting strain on Phillip's blood pressure.

"Is everything all right, Phillip?" Barnum asks, having the nerve to be _confused_ by Phillip's near to frantic concern as Phillip grips his hand in a steely vise.

"I would be right as rain if you possessed an _ounce_ of sense."

Barnum's eyes flicker over Phillip's face, his brows furrowing. Realization hits him, _thankfully_ , without a verbal cue, and he turns toward the performers attempting to _juggle fire_. "You're concerned about the new act," he says quietly, having the decency to look genuinely admonished, for once.

"P.T., I think it's a safe assumption that this show and fire are _not_ a good mix." Phillip's breaths are shallow, shortened by the black clouds of smoke still lingering in his lungs, the putrid taste of it clinging to the back of his tongue.

"Are you… _worried_ about me?" The corners of Barnum's mouth twitch into the makings of his trademark P.T. Barnum smirk, but his eyes broadcast a very different emotion, one on the opposite end of the spectrum from amusement.

"You're reckless, potentially crazy, and willing to endanger your own life for the sake of putting on a great show." Of course _I'm worried about you._ Phillip cannot bring himself to lend this sentiment a voice.

Barnum seems to hear it anyway. "If I promise you I'll make a wide berth around the fire jugglers, will you take a deep breath and let go of some of that stress? You're going to drop dead of a heart attack." He phrases the last statement as a joke, but genuine concern creases his forehead and his hands come down on Phillip's shoulders, kneading them softly.

Phillip's resistance is already crumbling under his partner's large, strong hands, but he knows Barnum's game. "You'll have my answer when I have your promise. And, you had better keep it, or I'll have a word with Charity, Caroline, and Helen." The threat is mostly made in jest, but he has every intention of following through with it if it means keeping his intensely vexing and _incredible_ partner safe.

"Hmm, conspiring with my family to keep me in line. That's rather devious of you, Phil." Barnum's lips quirk into an amused smile. His hands wander up Phillip's neck, fingers continuing their ministrations.

Phillip subconsciously, reflexively, leans into the contact. A satisfied groan bubbles up in his throat, but… _now_ is not the time. "I'll _gladly_ be 'devious' if it keeps you from setting yourself on fire."

"You're very persuasive, d'you know that?" Barnum murmurs. His hands have journeyed to the nape of Phillip's neck, and he just barely scrapes his fingertips through the ends of Phillip's hair.

"It's a well-concealed skill," Phillip informs him with the smallest hint of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He has no idea when Barnum's face got so close to his, when the tips of their noses drew within a hairsbreadth of each other, yet… those excited shivers are enveloping the base of his spine, and his heart is beating faster, heat oozing in a thin trickle to his pelvis. He dares to tip his face just a bit further, worry almost forgotten as he is swept up in the excitement twirling through him, tied up in the silk bonds of an insatiable desire that is fanning through his core to engulf the entirety of him.

Barnum, true to form, does not back down, or away, but nudges closer, the soft tip of his nose touching Phillip's.

The next breath they draw is one composed of mingled air. A line is pulled taut between them, and the thumping of Phillip's pulse begs for that line to become a tether, reeling him into Barnum until he loses himself in the man's-

"Mr. Barnum," O'Malley calls out, his voice thick with his brogue.

Barnum flinches and expels something that sounds all too like, " _damn it_ ", under his breath. "In a minute, O'Malley," he replies, waving his hand dismissively.

"Phillip," Anne's voice, dulcet and clear, chimes in, a trace of amusement embedded in her tone. "I believe we have an act to rehearse."

"Right." Phillip takes her in from the peripheral of his vision; silky tresses of dark, wavy hair down and flowing, one arm akimbo, knowing smirk playing on her lips. The heat in his face spreads to his neck. "Of course we… I-I should--" Much to his further embarrassment, he cannot sever the eye-contact between himself and Barnum.

"Best not to keep a lady waiting," Barnum encourages him with a playful grin and twinkle in his eye.

"I'm not moving an inch until you give me that promise, Phineas."

Hearing his proper first name spoken aloud by his partner seems to have quite an effect on Barnum. His grin falters, pupils dilating, and he shifts just the slightest bit closer. Phillip feels the man's every breath ghosting over his face. "You have my word," he pledges, _seriously_ , "that I won't tread within five feet of the fire jugglers."

Phillip tilts his head and appraises the showman from beneath his eyelashes. "That will suffice," he murmurs. This close to Barnum, he can almost _taste_ him, and flames tickle and tantalize his skin as he humors getting that taste. It would be addictive as malted whisky imported direct from Scotland, he muses, but perhaps without the burn. Perhaps so much _sweeter_.

He will have to wait to find out, however. Anne has come to fetch him, laughter tinkling from her lips, and she guides Phillip toward the ring where her trapeze equipment is already set up.

Phillip gives her a soft, abashed smile and links his fingers with hers, cherishing the warmth of life under her smooth skin. In Anne, he has found a best friend, a sister he's never had, and her continued presence in his life is as close to a blessing as Phillip, being a non-religious man, will ever dub something. In Barnum…

He gives the man a glance over his shoulder, and is both pleased, and left with an ache compressing his ribcage when, just for a moment, Barnum looks back, his stare as wanting and hungry as Phillip, himself.

 

.c.

 

"Charity said it was okay," is what Barnum breathes into the liminal space between them. And, suddenly, that string becomes the tether that Phillip is praying it would, and that tether winds and weaves around them, bringing them together in a far from artistic, indeed sloppy and hasty and careless in its eagerness, but somehow, maybe paradoxically, like so many other things pertaining to Phineas Barnum, strangely _poetic_ enmeshment of limbs and lips, tongues and teeth.

Teeth clicking and nipping at soft, supple flesh. Tongues probing and exploring. Lips pressing, crashing together, and sucking, extracting shivering, shuddering sounds of pure ecstasy. Limbs, _hands_ , roaming unrestricted.

Barnum pins Phillip to a wall, showcasing the power of his upper body, and that power turns predatory with the glint in his eyes darkened unfathomably by a desire that scatters all of Phillip's reason and sense to the wind, and the _searing_ kisses that he takes Phillip's mouth into. _Claims_ his mouth with. The sharp bites that he sinks into the flesh of Phillip's throat. The drag of his tongue over Phillip's Adam's apple and the bruise the suction of his mouth forms under Phillip's jaw. All of them predatory, dominating, and _possessive_.

Phillip has never spread his legs so wide, never gasped and moaned so loudly as a pleasure more intense than any he has ever known overcomes and consumes him, ravaging his insides like a delicious fire finally, _finally_ ignited by the tinderbox in his chest.

"I've… waited _so long_ ," he confesses amidst panting breaths and gasps that rattle inside of his chest. "Wanted you since-- _God_ , P.T." Barnum's knee pressing into his groin causes a white noise in his mind that temporarily steals his speech. He opts for littering fervent kisses over Barnum's throat, as an alternative.

"Wanted me since when, Phillip?" Barnum inquires. His voice has dropped to its lowest timbre and register- a growl feral as any from the lions, and Phillip rocks his hips against Barnum's kneecap, letting _that voice_ shower over him and add kindle to the blaze. He rasps his tongue over the ringmaster's Adam's apple, inciting a faint groan. "Was it that first night in the bar? Did you like the little dance I did for you? Enough to follow me? Enough to want me to fuck you?"

"A- _a-hh_!" Is the only response Phillip can manage.

Without warning, Barnum lifts Phillip's legs by the thighs, and secures them around his waist. He captures Phillip's lips in another deep kiss, Phillip feverishly reciprocating.

Phillip doesn't acknowledge, in his daze, that Barnum is carrying him until he has been deposited into the sizable plush armchair in Barnum's study. He moves quickly to situate himself, draping his legs over one arm of the chair, and resting his head against the other.

Pleased glimmer in his eye, as if this is exactly what he wanted, Barnum rejoins him. He places his hands on either side of Phillip's face and tips it up, kissing him, softer, this time.

The fire in Phillip's core diminishes ever so minutely. It's enough to make him whine in protest. "Are you _serious_? You can't possibly be stopping, now."

"But, we have all the time in the world!" Barnum remarks. His smirk is deliberate and _incensing_.

Phillip finds the willpower to summon a glare, his chest heaving with ragged, staccato breaths. "Phineas, God damn it. If you don't--"

Barnum chuckles, low and dangerous. "You are so _needy_. You're used to having most of the things you want delivered to you promptly, aren't you?" His hand trails down Phillip's face, dipping into the rumpled collar of his shirt to explore every ridge, plane, and valley of his collarbone and chest.

Phillip whimpers.

Pressing his nose to Phillip's, Barnum at last begins to undress him, fingers expertly slipping every button on Phillip's waistcoat and shirt free and sliding his suspenders from their perch. "I want to fully appreciate you before I claim you," he whispers. The promise in those words has Phillip arching into him, and he growls appreciatively, dropping a reverent kiss to the scar near Phillip's hairline. "And…" He adds, issuing a thoughtful hum as his fingers tease Phillip's nipples. "I'd like to establish a few things."

Here, the realization of what is about to happen, what is about to cross the bridge from fantasies entertained and caged within the darkest recesses of Phillip's mind, to tangible reality, where it has the power to change and affect and alter permanently, dawns on Phillip. His heart thumps against his throat, and the amorous haze cloaking his mind lifts, enabling him to heed Barnum's words.

"Before we do _anything_ , you need to promise you will be _absolutely_ upfront with me. If you don't care for something I'm doing, if you want me to stop, if I _hurt_ you, you need to _tell_ me. And, if you want something, no matter how mortifying you might think it is to admit to, _tell_ me. We're going to be seeing each other naked as the day we were born, so there is no point in keeping up any pretense of modesty. Can you do that, Phillip?"

"I'll do anything," Phillip swears, surprising himself with the depth and breadth of his need.

"Well, then," Barnum says. He sounds so pleased, eyes sparkling and voice a thrumming rumble, Phillip's hips give an involuntary twitch.

Slowly, almost unbearably so, articles of clothing are peeled away. Phillip's skin is responsive to every touch Barnum drags and feathers over it, and Phillip relishes every flutter of Barnum's eyes, every strained gasp he is able to pull from him by traversing the topography of his toned chest and back.

"Built like Adonis in the flesh," Barnum murmurs, awestruck, his eyes panning approvingly over Phillip from head to foot.

Heat floods Phillip's face. "Says the amalgamation of Apollo and Dionysus," he murmurs.

Barnum grins and Phillip leans in to kiss him, to quiet whatever self-indulgent, ego-stroking remark awaits, but also to flood another one of his senses with the intoxicating showman. He runs his tongue hungrily over Barnum's teeth, absorbing all that he can.

As they break off, Barnum's eyes wander from Phillip's face, past his shoulder. "Where did this come from?" He asks. His fingers trace over a thick white scar on the interior of Phillip's wrist.

Phillip gnaws at the inside of his lower lip. He tries to snatch his arm away, but Barnum holds on, long digits encircling Phillip's forearm.

"Phil," he coaxes softly, adopting a soothing lull. "Scars are nothing to be ashamed of. They're merely proof that you've survived."

Phillip remains silent, his heart pounding in the hollow of his throat. He isn't sure if he can begin to form a response. His parents taught him that scars are hideous and shameful- ramifications of a man's stupidity; reminders of his failures forever scored into his skin. Barnum is a proud man who takes great pride in all of his achievements, but Phillip fails to see how scars are anything more than unsightly blemishes. Perhaps even _deserved_ blemishes.

Eyes studying Phillip's face intently, Barnum guides the hand in his grasp to a white line etched across the sculpted stretch of his stomach, right above his navel, visible even under the trail of dark hair around it. "Do you see this?"

"Yes," Phillip breathes. His gaze flickers between Barnum's face and the scar that he both can't bear to look at, and cannot pull his eyes away from. He is aware that Phineas Taylor Barnum is a self-made man who fought his way up from the very slums of society, but he never quite connected this knowledge to the true hardships such a life would have entailed. His finger twitches, just perceptibly, toward the scar, and Barnum nods.

"It's all right. Go ahead."

Tentatively, Phillip runs his finger over the streak of the cicatrix. "Who did this to you?" The question slips out before he can consider what he is betraying in asking it.

Barnum murmurs, audibly fighting to keep his voice even, "I got into many altercations, growing up. Sometimes, I was able to defend myself. Others… well." His eyes turn glassy, distant, as if his mind is miles away and reliving one such "altercation" all over again. He turns around, giving Phillip a brief view of his toned backside that reveals more lines scoring the expanse of it- on his shoulder blades, near his spine, marking the dip at the base of the column of bone. "When you introduce rocks to a fight, but only arm one side with them, the other side hardly has a fair chance, do they?"

Air catches in Phillip's throat, nearly choking him. " _Phineas_ ," he whispers. The choking sensation intensifies, tears welling in his eyes and threatening to spill over. Barnum faces him, once more, and the longer Phillip looks, the more scars become apparent. Seemingly _dozens_ of them are dispersed over the ringmaster's flesh, glowing angrily in the firelight like bolts of lightning splitting the black of the night sky.

Hatred for whoever inflicted them seizes Phillip; rocks his stomach until he feels ill.

"Now…" Barnum stands between Phillip's legs and leans over him. One hand slips under Phillip's back, and the other returns to his wrist, thumb stroking the scar he discovered and directing Phillip's attention back to it.

Phillip shivers, his flesh prickling as goosebumps stir the hair on his arms.

"Do you feel up to sharing who did this to _you_?"

Under Barnum's level stare, the warmth of his skin, the tenderness of every bit of contact he peppers over Phillip's body, Phillip's walls erode, _breaking_ , as Barnum pledged they would. "My father," Phillip admits. He lowers his eyes, dreading the older man's reaction. "I… I had a difficult time paying attention to some of my lessons. He had to remind me not to get lost in silly, nonsensical things like daydreams. And, used a ruler as his reenforcement."

Barnum's eyes soften, flooding with horror. "Bastard," he whispers. His hand leaves Phillip's wrist to journey south, and zeroes in on another mark that Phillip has done his best to put out of mind, usually with the assistance of liquor.

Phillip does his best not to flinch away from Barnum's gentle touch.

"This… Was this _also_ from your father?" Barnum follows the line of a welt that had cut into Phillip's skin, breaking it. This blemish winds from his side to his lower back. Barnum breathes out, " _Christ_ ", and Phillip has never heard him sound quite so appalled.

Phillip can still recall curling into himself in a futile attempt to shield himself from the worst of the blows, whimpering miserably, pleading with his father, _"I'll never do it again._ Ever again _. I swear. Father,_ please _."_ "That…" He swallows, lips twisting into an acerbic, malformed version of a smile. The taste of bile hits his taste buds. "Was the one and only time he caned me. I stared a little too long at Cassander Pearson at a party when I was fifteen."

Barnum's upper lip curls into a sneer. "Caning your own child. Thank God the mentality of people like your father will, hopefully, die out with the rest of the miserable wastes of imagination propagating it." He pauses, seething quietly, then swears, vehement and close to a legitimate threat as Phillip has ever heard pass from his lips, "If that man ever comes within fifty yards of you, I'll have him fed to the lions."

Words fail Phillip, his heart aching as he feels completely stripped bare and laid out- open, dissected, eviscerated. So, he remains silent, absently retracing the worst scar on Barnum's abdomen. His eyes trail downward of their own accord, and meet another scar on Barnum's right knee. "P.T., was this from--"

"No. _That_ was an accident. I tripped while hauling piles of lumber around, during my days on the railroad. Landed right on one of the metal rails bordering the tracks." His voice drops, taking on a huskiness laced with distinct affection. "You don't need to worry about anyone harming me." He shifts so he is now straddling Phillip, and a low moan is beckoned from Phillip's throat. Barnum chuckles in response. "Impatient, aren't we?"

"I've never-- I-I want--" Phillip rambles aimlessly. He is unable to find the right phrasing to communicate what he truly means to say. That he has never before felt the way that Barnum makes him feel. That he wants more of it, to experience it as long as he lives, and even in the afterlife, if there is such a thing.

But, coherence is quickly reduced to an impediment void of all meaning and significance as Barnum's hand closes around his cock.

That familiar heat surges through Phillip, once more, and he's spreading his legs and arching into Barnum's grip. "Fuck, Phin."

"Oh, I have _every_ intention of doing that."

Phillip unleashes a moan, and Barnum's mouth is back on him in earnest, covering every inch and millimetre of skin in his reach in kisses and bites; licking and dragging his teeth over Phillip's nipples, lapping at the head of his cock, and lavishing the scar on Phillip's side with special attention.

By the time Barnum's saliva-moistened fingers breach him, Phillip is already half out of his mind with carnal bliss, pleasure whisking him right to the brink of pure, unfettered, _overwhelming_ satiation.

"Hot velvet," Barnum breathes into Phillip's skin, his baritone sensual and rumbling with his faint, unplaceable accent. "Hot as facula and just as blindingly beautiful."

"'F-Facula'?" Phillip hinges on the foreign word, opening one eye to peer at Barnum as the man's long fingers stroke deep inside of him. "God. _Shit_."

"A bright spot on the surface of the sun," Barnum elucidates.

Blush spreads over the entirety of Phillip. He could- _would_ , _happily_ \- drown in every compliment, every bit of praise this man bestows on him.

Barnum hums softly and gives his wrist a deft twist, curling his finger. He manages to touch _something_ , a nerve, a spot, buried inside of Phillip, unbeknownst to Phillip, himself, prior to this night, and Phillip's volume crescendoes to a shout. "Yeah," Barnum breathes; quick, short, shallow, excited. His eyes gleam triumphantly. "There's what I was looking for." 

Phillip rocks against him, his hands frantically seeking something to grab on to. The top of the chair isn't enough to give him the foundation that he needs as he unravels.

"Are you ready for the grand finale?" Barnum queries just shy of desperately, mouth cocking into that smirk that Phillip finds too insanely attractive in this present scenario to be vexed at.

"I am. _Please_ , Phin. I'm ready."

Barnum presses a kiss to Phillip's hipbone and his nose. "You're doing beautifully, darling. You're utterly _breathtaking_."

A low whine emits from Phillip. He feels _everything_ , all at once- in his heart, in his cock, in his face. The French refer to an orgasm as _la petite mort_ , and Phillip deems the phrase _incredibly_ fitting, as he genuinely feels that he may die.

Or, burst into flame.

More wet heat enters Phillip, working him open, stretching him. This heat is thicker, fuller, reaches depths inside of him that he never could have imagined, and he instantaneously craves as much of it as possible.

"Mm, _Phillip_ ," Barnum gasps, buried to the hilt. "Phillip, you feel _so good_. No one else has ever been inside you like this, have they?"

"N-No," Phillip is able to force out amongst the infinite sea of _yesyesyesyesyes_ sprawling before him and sweeping him up in a riptide of unbridled desire and ecstasy. "Only you," he swears. "Only _you_ , Phineas. _Fuck_."

"That's what I thought. _Shit_ , you're so tight," Barnum marvels breathlessly.

A moan wells out of Phillip, loud and voluminous as a waterfall; his hips arching and rocking against the thick line of rigid pressure filling him.

"Good, Phillip. That's…" Barnum emits a low, pleased growl that spears arousal through Phillip from his throbbing manhood to his heart. He shifts his hips, withdrawing for the briefest moment, then plunges in deeper.

Phillip spreads his legs wider to accommodate him and clenches around Barnum's length. Acute self-gratification surges through him at the hitching of Barnum's breath and the staggered moan pulled from him.

" _Christ_. _Yeah_. You love being filled, don't you? Spread out beneath me and claimed as my own. Isn't that right, Phillip?"

" _Yes_. Ohh, Phin. Yes. _Phin_."

Barnum hisses. His thrusts assume a brisk pace, and Phillip's arms at last locate an anchor, wrapping around the ringmaster's neck and clinging as he voraciously meets every motion of his hips. " _That's it_. Keep saying my name. I want to hear you sing for me as you come undone."

"Singing" isn't how Phillip would describe the shameful noises of wanton indecency streaming forth from his mouth as they are pulled from his very core. But, Barnum seems to revel in them, encouraging them and driving into Phillip and repeatedly stimulating _that spot_ with everything he has. White hot pleasure is all that Phillip knows, burning everything else out of creation, and his vocabulary now consists purely of Barnum's name and an unceasing litany of, _yes_ , _harder_ , _right there_ , _oh,_ ** _please_** , _yes,_ **_yes_** , _please please_ , _fuck_ , _Phin_ , _Phin_ , **_Phineas_** _!_

That last hitching, desperate exclamation is what leaves Phillip's mouth as "the little death" envelopes him, closing over his head and sinking him into depths he has never known. His nails dig into Barnum's shoulder blades, his back arches off of the chair, his hips seizing, spasming once, twice, and then he comes like he is never going to stop.

Barnum drinks in every gasp, every oozing liquid moan, every sob that spills from Phillip's lips. He crushes Phillip against him as Phillip's body goes lax, their foreheads touching as Barnum wraps things up in a fittingly grand flourish.

Phillip is filled all over again, and he whimpers softly with euphoria, tears slipping down his face. "Phineas," he breathes.

"Phillip, Phillip," Barnum murmurs, feathering kisses all over Phillip's face, collarbone, and the plate of his breastbone as he comes down from his own peak of pleasure. "You're perfect, _so_ perfect. _God_. You're mine. All _mine_ from now on, till the end of time, and forever after."

Phillip can only nod, whispering, "Phin", like a prayer, more tears streaking from his eyes.

Barnum kisses and wipes them away, nuzzling into Phillip's cheek. Their chests are slick with sweat, stomachs coated in the slick remnants of their union. Muted pain flares in every passion-fueled bruise Barnum dotted his throat, chest, and hips with, and in a rational state of mind, Phillip might be ashamed of how thoroughly and utterly debauched he has allowed himself to become.

Instead, he breathes in and lets himself be fully submerged in an ocean of love and contentment, curling into Barnum and whispering words of devotion- "I'll never let anyone or anything hurt you again. You saved me. _God_ , Phineas. My heart is yours. _I_ am _yours. I'm yours_ "- into the heat of his skin.

When he awakens some immeasurable amount of time later to find mere embers glowing in the fireplace, a thick blanket draped over him, and Barnum wrapped snug around him beneath it, sleeping soundly, Phillip smiles, every pore, nerve, and molecule singing with sheer _delight_ that he hasn't drowned.

Indeed, he has finally reached the other side, and, savoring the languid beat of Barnum's pulse as he settles back against the ringmaster's chest, pressing a kiss to it, Phillip knows that he will be content to stay here from now on, until the end of time. And, forever after.

 

 

 

Fin.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
